The Tattoo Thief

by Alison Belsham

  ‘Plod,’ she hissed into Francis’s ear as he passed her.

  How in God’s name did they know? Always. Did he emanate some sort of smell or was it the cut of his suit? Was there a certain cast in his eye that gave the game away?

  ‘Not here for you, dear,’ he murmured to her as she continued down the stairs.

  Marni looked back at him questioningly, and he raised his eyebrows.

  The stairs opened into a narrow corridor with doors along either side. The air was hazy and smelled heavily of incense and patchouli, and the single overhead light was fitted with a red bulb. There was music playing, and behind one of the doors, a woman was singing an oriental tune in a high, reedy voice. Brothel or opium den? Francis could almost see Sherlock Holmes in here, losing himself in a golden cloud.

  Marni knocked on one of the doors. She didn’t wait for an answer, but pushed it open and went in, beckoning Francis to follow her. He didn’t know what to expect – a dark and sordid chamber of horrors had sprung up in his mind’s eye. But not this. Not a spacious, pale and pristine studio, flooded with natural light. Along the opposite wall, a long row of tall windows looked out over a motley stretch of ill-kept back gardens. In contrast, everything in the studio was sleek and modern – the tattooing chairs and benches were expensive concoctions of steel, leather and wood, while the equipment and light fittings made him think of a luxurious medical facility.

  But this wasn’t what snared Francis’s attention. Something was sitting on one of the plush leather tattooing chairs, staring at him with hostile green eyes. At first glance he thought it was an emaciated and bruised naked baby, a shock that sent a shiver up his spine. But the creature was a cat, completely devoid of hair and thin enough to make every bone visible. Most disturbing of all, as he looked more closely he saw that the bruises were actually tattoos. The creature’s back, neck, chest and legs were covered with Japanese pictograms, rendered in dark indigo ink. The cat hissed and showed its teeth to him.

  He looked towards Marni for an explanation and then stretched out his hand towards the creature. As he did, it reared up on its haunches and batted at his hand with one paw, scratching the side of his thumb.

  ‘What the—’

  The sound of a door opening behind him stopped Francis in mid-flow. He stuck his bleeding thumb in his mouth and turned around to see a willowy Japanese man coming into the studio. He was wearing a dark blue linen kimono. His buzz-cut hair was snow white but his face was unlined, making it difficult to assess his age. He didn’t look happy to have visitors.

  The man nodded when he recognised Marni, but his scowl deepened as he looked at Francis. He bowed, bending deeply from his waist, and Marni bowed in return, with a flick of her index finger indicating to Francis to do the same.

  ‘Konnichiwa,’ the man said. His voice was high-pitched and staccato.

  ‘Konnichiwa, sensei,’ Marni replied.

  He straightened up from his bow and twisted to face Francis.

  ‘Konnichiwa,’ he said, bowing again.

  Francis bowed in return, unsure of what to say.

  Once they were both upright the man turned straight back to Marni and said something to her in Japanese. To Francis it sounded like he was angry, and whatever he said made Marni frown.

  ‘Yes, I brought a stranger here,’ she replied in English. ‘Please forgive me, master. We need your help.’

  ‘I don’t see you for a year and then you only come when you want something.’

  Francis couldn’t tell if he was being serious or playful.

  ‘I apologise, Iwao,’ Marni said, with another slight bow. ‘I’m sorry – I know I should come more often.’

  ‘You should. You’re my favourite canvas and you still have blank skin. You also have a lot still to learn.’ Then his face relaxed into a smile. ‘How’s Thierry?’

  Marni smiled in return. ‘He’s good. Producing some great work at the moment.’

  ‘Tell him to come and see me soon. He’s as bad as you are for ignoring his friends. Now, you’ve brought a visitor. Who is this?’

  Chastened, Marni turned to look at Francis. ‘Iwao, this is Francis Sullivan.’ She switched to Japanese and there was a rapid exchange between the two of them. Eventually they fell silent and Iwao looked at Francis. The cat hissed again, jumped down from the chair and stalked through the room towards the door by which Iwao had entered.

  ‘You are police?’ Iwao said.

  Francis nodded.

  ‘Get out.’

  Marni stepped forward and put a hand on the man’s forearm. ‘No, please, Iwao. This is important.’

  He shook his arm free. ‘It’s bad luck. Please leave.’

  Francis looked at Marni but she seemed to be at a loss, so he turned his gaze to Iwao. ‘Mr Ishikawa, we need your expertise in tattoos to help a murder investigation. Let me show you a couple of pictures and then we’ll go.’

  Iwao screwed up his face. He whispered something to Marni in Japanese. She nodded slowly but her cheeks flamed.

  ‘Give me the pictures,’ he said.

  Francis opened his document case and pulled out the picture of Evan Armstrong’s shoulder.

  ‘We’re trying to establish who did this tattoo.’

  Iwao took the image from him and went across the room to an immaculately tidy workbench. He held the photo under the glare of a strong desk lamp, then made a soft clicking noise with his mouth as he studied it through a magnifying glass.

  Francis looked round at the pictures on the wall. Not surprisingly, they were all Japanese style and, even with his untrained eye, he could see that they were something special.

  ‘Are these all by Iwao?’ he asked Marni in a low voice.

  She nodded. ‘He did my back piece,’ she said.

  ‘I know who this is by,’ said Iwao.

  He put the picture down on his bench and pulled an exhibition catalogue out of a nearby bookcase. He flicked through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

  Francis found himself holding his breath and glanced at Marni – she was doing the same.

  ‘Yes, here.’ Iwao put the brochure down next to the picture and held it open so Francis and Marni could see. ‘These two are very similar, certainly by the same hand. See, these triangles here, all distorted slightly in the same direction. The lines have the same weight. The patterns are on a similar scale, same level of intricacy . . .’

  Francis looked closer and could see the similarity in the details Iwao mentioned.

  ‘And?’ prompted Marni.

  ‘This work is by Jonah Mason. I included him in my exhibition – a great honour for him. But his work is outstanding.’

  ‘I thought it might be one of Jonah’s,’ said Marni, ‘but I wasn’t sure. I wanted to see if you felt the same.’

  ‘Is he still working?’ said Francis.

  Iwao shrugged. ‘He’s lived in California for the past fifteen years – that’s where I met him – but, yes, he’s still prolific.’

  He closed the catalogue and put it back on the shelf. As he reached up, the sleeve of his kimono slid down to his elbow and Francis caught a glimpse of dark, intricate ink on his forearm.

  ‘You say this tattoo was cut away from the man’s body?’ said Iwao, turning back to Marni.

  ‘Can you think of any reason why someone might do that?’ she said.

  Iwao took a deep breath and waited before exhaling. He stroked his chin with slender fingers.

  ‘It’s something that happens in Japan,’ he said, ‘but not like this. People with irezumi, usually Yakuza . . .’

  ‘Irezumi?’ asked Francis.

  ‘Full body tattoos. Sometimes, when a Yakuza dies, he will have left instructions for his tattoo to be flayed from his body and preserved. There are examples of them displayed in the Bunshin Tattoo Museum in Yokohama. And I know Tokyo U
niversity has a collection.’

  ‘But people aren’t murdered for their tattoos?’

  Iwao shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of it – in Japan or anywhere else. Now, time for you to go.’

  He turned on his heel and left the room without saying goodbye, leaving Francis and Marni to make their way back down the black staircase and out onto the street. When the door had closed behind them, Francis turned to Marni.

  ‘What did he say to you, when I asked him to look at the pictures?’

  Marni looked away from him and again her cheeks took on colour.

  ‘It was nothing. He just wanted to remind me of something.’

  Francis couldn’t begin to wonder what it was and her demeanour didn’t encourage him to dig further. They walked on in silence.

  Francis’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at it and saw a text message from Rory.

  Why is Marni Mullins such an expert on prison tatts? She’s done time.

  vi

  I have taken a number of tattoos. I’m turning them into leather – curing them. They came from different people – dead now, of course – and they’re all at different stages of the tanning process. I’ve been curing leather for years. Not human leather, of course – that’s a relatively recent thing. But animal skins. And though you might not believe it, the process is exactly the same. There’s nothing different about human skin and the leather it makes is as soft as any.

  For example, the boy’s scalp is now bathing in milk of lime to break down the keratin in the hair and to dissolve the fat. It stinks but it’s an essential part of the process. While that one limes, I’m working on another. Scudding away hair and rotting flesh from an elegant sleeve tattoo using a blunted blade. I remember the woman I took it from. My first victim. I was so nervous but as soon as I started to cut and peel away her skin, my confidence flooded back. She was a kind woman – I spoke to her before I killed her – and still graceful when she realised what was about to happen. Only at the very moment of death did I see the fear in her eyes and smell her sweat.

  I’m at my happiest when working with skins. I learned that fact when I was working for Ron Dougherty. He recognised my special talents. He might have been the finest taxidermist in the country when I apprenticed with him, but he was more than happy to pass that baton on to me as I honed my skills. But more importantly, we were a team and he was like a father to me.

  He took over my education where my father left off, and was a better father to me in so many ways that I couldn’t even begin to list them. When Daddy pushed me out of the nest because I couldn’t live up to his expectations, Ron stepped in and picked up the pieces. My pieces. And over the next ten years, he stitched me back together and taught me my craft.

  Ron gave me a home and a job, and plenty more. I went to work for him in his studio.

  He started me off working on rats and mice. You can buy them alive anywhere – for feeding snakes or lab experimentation – so we had a constant supply. They’re cheap so it didn’t matter when I made a mistake, though I made precious few. Once I’d learned the basic skills of skinning, curing and stuffing, he let me build my skills on birds and squirrels, on hamsters, and then on kittens. Once I was ready, I was allowed to work on bigger animals. Very few of our clients ever asked where the animals came from. Most of our business came from stuffing people’s dead pets, ponies or prize livestock. Sometimes we were asked to make tableaus. People would want a scene from a favourite book or film reinterpreted with dead mice and birds. My favourite was a rat as Don Quixote, riding a hedgehog as he tilted at a windmill. I made it for an old lady from Brixham, who could remember such a piece from her childhood.

  Ron died a few years ago. It’s a shame he’s dead. I kept his skin and tanned it – my first experience with human skin. I always carry a bit of Ron’s skin with me now, in my pocket or, more often, pinned inside my clothing, so I can feel it against my own skin. That way we’re always together. Never apart.

  Ron was the best. That’s why he had to go.

  Now, according to the Collector, I’m the best.

  16

  Francis

  Francis Sullivan stared at his computer screen with disbelief and swore softly at no one in particular. There was nothing. Not a single mention of a Marni Mullins in the Sussex police database. Perhaps she was in there under another name, her maiden name most likely. But then how the hell had Rory known that she’d been inside? Francis had asked him straight away but he’d just muttered something vague about unsubstantiated rumours. Francis wondered what her crime had been. Shoplifting? Petty drug dealing, like Thierry? He’d had several cautions. Burglary, maybe? Women could be accomplished burglars. He’d have to widen his search to the national database.

  He knew he shouldn’t, however. He didn’t for one minute view Marni as a suspect in the Evan Armstrong murder, and they had no concrete reason to link that murder to the body found under the pier. Sure, both victims had tattoos, but as far as he could make out, so did at least half of the young men who were still alive in the city. And the MOs were completely different. Following up on a prurient interest in Marni Mullins was unprofessional. He could leave that for his unscrupulous number two to do, and he had no doubt Rory would. Francis hardly dared question where he’d got his information about her prison time from.

  An email pinged into his inbox and he turned his attention to the cases in hand. It was from Angie Burton and contained the results from an altogether more valid search. He’d asked her to check with SCAS – the Serious Crime Analysis Section – for any violent crimes that involved skin-flaying or tattoo removal. He scanned it quickly for information, taking a sip of coffee as he ran his eyes down the screen.

  Nothing stood out as obvious. Victims of all sorts of murders – robberies, pub fights, domestics – were recorded as having had tattoos, but most had been solved and SCAS hadn’t flagged any of the tattoos up as having been elemental to the motive. The list of mortal injuries from the database made gruesome reading, but flaying wasn’t among them. Most were stabbings or blunt instrument trauma. A woman had had an arm chopped off, another had been pushed under a train, and there were a couple of fatal gunshot wounds. One man had been stabbed in the neck with a tattoo machine, surviving even though the needles had nicked one of his carotid arteries.

  Francis skipped down to Angie’s analysis of the findings.

  . . . no obvious link to Evan Armstrong’s death. There might be some sort of connection that would come to light with deeper analysis. However, that would require a substantial commitment of man hours from the team . . .

  In other words, Angie didn’t want to do it. Francis couldn’t blame her – data analysis was becoming a bigger part of the job but it wasn’t the reason why most people joined the force. They were interested in hands-on investigating, not sitting behind a desk. But if there was something there, he couldn’t afford to miss it on his first case in charge.

  He picked up his phone.

  ‘Hollins, in here a moment.’

  Two minutes later Hollins appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Can we do it in a sec, boss? It’s Angie’s birthday and she’s about to dole out cake.’

  No worries. There’s a madman with a flaying knife on the loose but let’s all pause the search to eat cake . . .

  ‘Of course.’ He got up from his desk and followed Hollins into the incident room. ‘Where’s the birthday girl?’

  Ten minutes later, after he’d joined in with a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ and eaten the thinnest slice of Victoria sponge possible, Angie had intercepted him on his way back to his office and jokingly demanded a birthday kiss. He gave her a peck on the cheek, which was enough to cause his own cheeks to flame. Heading back to his desk, he intercepted Kyle Hollins’ attempt at taking a third piece of cake. No wonder there was a slight overhang at the top of his trousers.

 
‘Hollins, my office.’

  Rory followed them in, still licking strawberry jam from around his lips. ‘Boss? A word?’ He spat crumbs as he spoke.

  Francis frowned. ‘Give me a minute.’

  He turned back to Hollins. ‘I’ve sent you a SCAS report based on the markers in the Armstrong murder. I want you to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Check for anything that could have been missed, especially areas of skin abraded or cut. Cross-reference geography and take a note of any suspects or nominals. Let me know of any linked cases before close of play.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No buts. Just bugger off and do it.’

  Hollins reversed out, looking glum.

  Rory watched him go with an amused look on his face. ‘He was going to tell you that Bradshaw’s already got him working on something that needs to be finished on pain of death.’

  Francis raised an eyebrow. The chief was bypassing him and using his staff?

  ‘It’s a tough life. By the way, where is Bradshaw? Seen him today?’

  ‘It’s Wednesday. Golf with the Super. Shinning up the greasy pole.’

  ‘Right. What have you got for me?’

  Rory planted himself in the empty chair on the other side of Francis’s desk.

  ‘Firstly, Tom Fitz from the Argus is sitting in reception and says he won’t leave until he gets an interview with you.’

  Francis sighed. Would the damn man never give up?

  ‘Tell the desk sergeant to throw him out. What else?’

  ‘ID on the headless corpse. I was right – we did have his fingerprints on record.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wasn’t exactly the gangster I thought.’ At least the sergeant could do a nice line in self-deprecation. ‘Just one count of joyriding. Thug called Jem Walsh. Local boy, apprentice tattoo artist. Pretty unlikely he was involved in drug wars.’

  ‘Anything to suggest what might have happened?’

  Rory paused briefly. ‘It turns out he had a tattoo on his head . . .’

  Francis’s stomach lurched. ‘. . . And his head was taken.’